


the bridges I have burned never really led home

by Madeofsequins



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pynch Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 00:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madeofsequins/pseuds/Madeofsequins
Summary: day 3: bonfire





	the bridges I have burned never really led home

**Author's Note:**

> Ack! I was gone for the weekend and forgot about Pynch Week! Sneaking this in super quickly tonight for day 3.

Adam arrives at the Barns soaked in sweat. The Virginia sun is hot, the air a damp, heavy weight on his shoulders, even at nearly six in the evening. He leans his bike on the front porch railing and follows the sound of irregular banging that seems to be coming from one of the front fields.

The source of the noise becomes apparent several minutes later. Ronan is haphazardly throwing a strange assortment of household items into a pile whose base seems to be comprised of hardwood furniture worth at least a few months of Adam’s rent. When Ronan notices Adam approaching, he jerks his head at Opal. Opal lets the gold spatula she’s chewing on (is that real gold?) fall from her mouth, and she scuttles off in the direction of the house. 

Adam walks up to join Ronan and his pile of stuff, pausing to pick up the spatula on his way. He holds the spatula out in front of his lengthening shadow for inspection; there are several teeth marks that look permanent.

Ronan shrugs. “Twenty-four karat.” He holds out his hand. Adam gives him the spatula. Ronan chucks the spatula on top of a card table made of cards.

Adam looks at him. “What are we doing?”

“Getting rid of things that make us feel shitty. Ah,” he pauses as Opal returns. 

She’s holding a thin stack of envelopes that Adam recognizes immediately. _Dear Mr. Parrish, Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you…_ Opal offers him the envelopes, holds Adam’s gaze steadily. There’s a much taller pile of large envelopes, back at his apartment, full of congratulations and scholarships and information about admitted students’ day. Adam knows this. He looks through each of them every evening, not even to decide, yet, but to assure himself that they’re real. He takes the envelopes from Opal’s hand and turns to Ronan. “Getting rid of?”

Ronan’s lips turn up in a wicked smile. The sun is sinking lower behind the threes, casting his face in partial shadow, but his teeth flash bright white when he grins. He casually tosses an ornately-framed photograph of the Cat in the Hat into his pile before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a slender black cylinder with a tapered point.

“Weren’t Kavinsky’s fireworks enough to put you off of them for at least a couple of years?”

“This is a _flamethrower_ ,” Ronan replies, like that makes it better. “Quick, put your crap in there.”

Adam considers it for a few more seconds, then takes a few steps forward to tuck the envelopes behind the Cat in the Hat’s final resting place. He retreats back to where Ronan and Opal are standing. Ronan has his free arm out, blocking Opal from walking toward the pile. When Adam is settled on his other side, he lets out a whoop and waves the flamethrower. Little balls of fire exit the tube and launch themselves into and on top of the pile. It doesn’t take many for the entire thing to catch fire. Opal squeals and pulls away from Ronan’s arm, running circles around the flaming pile of broken dreams. “Don’t touch the fire, you gremlin,” Ronan calls, but there’s no bite to it. He takes a step back, tugging Adam with him, and suddenly they’re both lying on the grass, propped up on their elbows and on each other.

The heat from the fire just adds to the heat of the afternoon, and Adam can hear the faint buzzing of mosquitoes in his good ear. Still, though, he feels good -- settled. He thinks about the pile of acceptances waiting for him, the Hondayota up on blocks, nearly ready to be his ticket out of here. He thinks about Opal’s watchful eyes, the twinkling lights of the Barns in the distance, the weight of Ronan’s shoulder against his own, always ready to be his anchor back home. The fire grows and the flames start to audibly crackle. Adam leans all the way back into the grass and closes his eyes.


End file.
